


One More Minute

by Tarlan



Series: One More Minute [1]
Category: E.R., The Rock (1996)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-27
Updated: 2006-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having survived the bloodbath, Anderson finds an unexpected source of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Minute

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to the MBFic _Pics for Fics_ challenge.
> 
> I hate it when one of my favorite actor's characters dies in a film - most especially if he was one of the good guys. Here's what I think _could_ have happened in that Shower room. One important note: I have extremely little knowledge of treating gunshot wounds, so my apologies to all those medical experts out there who know better. Just try to suspend disbelief for a moment or two, please.
> 
> My thanks go to Donna who very generously spent time reading over this story and correcting all my terrible grammar and spelling... and pointed out all the plot holes that were so big you could drive a Humvee through. Thank you, Donna.

**Shower Room  
Alcatraz**

General Francis Hummel swallowed hard as his hand swept across the unseeing eyes of the dead SEAL, closing them forever. It wasn't supposed to have happened this way; this waste of good men, of young lives. His anger bubbled up to the surface, his eyes narrowing as a cold rage filled him. Reaching out, he adjusted the minicam attached to the dead man's shoulder and spoke, with bitterness, to the men in the Operations Room across the bay in San Francisco - and then he severed the link. He remained still for a moment longer, wishing he could shut his eyes to avoid seeing the carnage of blood-splattered walls and bullet-riddled bodies lying in twisted heaps around him, but he knew that image would be waiting for him behind his eyelids anyhow.

His lips tightened into a thin line as he slowly swiveled his head to look about him.

They hadn't stood a chance in hell. His men had held the high ground and had protective cover to their advantage as well. Hummel sighed. One more minute, that's all it would have taken; just *one* more minute and he believed he would have been able to convince the young commander, Anderson, that he had no choice but to surrender his men... that or die, but it was not to be. An eager, trigger happy soldier on his side? A frightened SEAL on the other side? Whatever the cause, the end result was a foregone conclusion, and his own men had survived without a single scratch upon them.

His anger burned brighter as he heard the exhilaration behind him, the crowing of his men as they described the way they had cut down the 'enemy', but Hummel felt no pride in what had happened, felt no pleasurable wave of victory roll over him. As he started to straighten, intending to reprimand these soldiers for their lack of discipline and compassion, he heard one of the men make another startled exclamation.

"Jesus. This one's still alive, too."

Hummel quickly pulled himself to his feet and strode over to where a small knot of men had gathered.

The SEAL was lying on his back in an ever-increasing pool of blood, fetched up against one of the pillars that had afforded little if no protection to the disadvantaged team. His blood- and camouflage-streaked face was partially hidden by the forearm draped across it. A handgun, hanging loose from limp, unresisting fingers, was nudged aside with a foot.

Hummel sank to his haunches beside the dying man.

"Get a medic."

"Why waste time and aid on him?"

"Because I gave you an order, Captain Darrow. He is *not* our enemy. Now, get a medic."

With a scowl and a few disgruntled murmurings, the large, dark-skinned captain relayed the order while Hummel reached down to move the arm and brush an errant lock of damp air from the man's forehead. The SEAL moved, a small, pain-filled gasp falling from his parted lips along with bubbles of blood.

"Don't try to talk, soldier."

Hummel reached inside the dark clothing and pulled out the man's dog tags, his brow creasing in sorrow. He was a religious man, and he was a patriot. He believed in his country and he believed in his God and, as he moved aside to give the medic room to work, he wondered anew at the saying he had first heard in his childhood... _God moves in mysterious ways_. Why else would this particular soldier survive such a blood-bath? Why not one of the others? The ones who were barely more than boys. The ones that had followed their orders to the death. Instead, the sole survivor was the one who had refused to give the order to stand down.

Part of him almost reached out to stop the medic, to allow Anderson the dignity of dying with his men, but another part of him, the religious part, decided to throw no additional obstacles in God's path. Anderson would not thank him for this. The man would find it hard to go on knowing that his refusal to surrender had cost the lives of each and every member of his team, but Anderson would not be the first commander who had to live with that knowledge, and, no doubt, he would not be the last.

Hummel looked about him and dwelt, momentarily, on the wasted lives. If only he could have been able to explain to Anderson his true intentions, that it was all a bluff, that there was never any intention to hurt either the 81 hostages nor the 70,000 citizens of the San Francisco Bay area. He had hoped that the fear alone would bring justice and recompense to the families of the soldiers who had died so bravely, and yet been dishonored and betrayed by their country.

If only he had been granted one more minute.

"Gates?"

The medic looked up from where he was trying to staunch the blood loss from the many wounds.

"He's hurt real bad, sir. Needs a Med-Evac if he's gonna make it."

Hummel lowered his head and closed his eyes, giving a silent prayer to the God he had sometimes believed had forsaken them all.

In your hands be it. "No Med-Evac. Do what you can to make him comfortable. One way or another this will all be over in a few hours."

Gates nodded, his lips a tight line, knowing there was little he could do to save the SEAL.

"Sir!"

Hummel stood up and moved to where the last of Anderson's men had appeared - and died. He looked down the manhole.

"Weapons and radio transmitter are missing."

Hummel's lips tightened. It appeared Anderson was not the sole survivor after all.

****

 **Operations Room  
San Francisco**

They had followed Goodspeed's progress, giving him orders to detain Mason, to get the man to help him, when FBI Director Womack's attention was drawn back to the locator details for the Navy SEAL team. All the minicams had been disabled within moments of Hummel's message, no doubt to protect the identities of the men Hummel had suborned into aiding him in his lunacy. His finger jabbed out at the flashing red marks.

"What the hell's going on here?"

The operator swallowed noisily as he watched the locator positions on the grid move into a long straight line.

"They're lining up the bodies, sir."

Silence fell around the room. Many of the soldiers present found some comfort in knowing the team had not been left lying in the bloody heaps where they had fallen; that Hummel, or someone under his command, had the compassion to afford them some dignity in death.

"And what about that one?"

"That-that was Commander Anderson, but he's dead, sir. During the firefight one of the minicams showed him crawling, injured but still firing, and then he fell under a hail of bullets."

"Why isn't he being placed with the others?"

"For all we know, sir, he **has** been placed with the others. It could just be his locator that's moving."

Womack nodded; a momentary stab of hope had filled him and then died. He had liked Anderson; a good man - intelligent, courageous, resourceful; a true soldier and an exceptionally likable person. It was such a waste but, in that line of work, a sadly expected loss. He glanced over, from time to time, to see where the locator, and possibly Anderson's body, had been taken; saw it come to rest, finally, in the main cell bock where they assumed the 81 hostages were being held, but he refused to engineer any more hope.

****

 **Main Cell Block  
Alcatraz**

Gates looked along the row of cells at the frightened, huddled mass of tourists. Hummel had said 'no Med-Evac' but had not refused him permission to see if there was any help to be had from another quarter.

"Your attention, please." An eerie silence descended about the cell block. "We have an injured man. Is there a doctor among you?"

He knew the chances of there being a medical doctor among just 81 tourists was slim to nonexistent, but he had to ask.

"I'm a doctor."

Gates marched quickly along the length of the cell block until he reached the one where he thought he had heard the response. He gazed into the intelligent eyes of a dark-skinned man in his late thirties, taking note of the neat mustache and beard.

"And you are?"

"Dr Peter Benton. Where's the patient?"

Gates gave a signal and, seconds later, the door to Benton's cell sprang open. Benton turned and placed his hands upon a woman's shoulders, giving her gentle reassurance before leaving the cell. The door slammed shut behind him as he followed the soldier down the line of cells to an open one at the far end.

Benton dropped down beside the injured man, instantly starting to bark orders at Gates. He grabbed the medpack from Gates' hands and rummaged through quickly to determine what implements he had available to work with.

Gates' mouth opened slightly in amazement as he watched a true professional at work, but he knew better than to interrupt. He followed the man's orders, slicing through clothing to give the doctor easier access to the many injuries, then sat back on his haunches passing pressure pads, clamps and suture on demand.

"He's lost a lot of blood, gonna die if we don't replace some of it."

Benton picked up the dog tags and read off the blood type, then reached into the pack for a length of tubing and needles.

"O positive. Well, that's a good start. The most common. I want anyone with this blood type lined up ready to donate."

"It'll have to come from the hostages. The general will not authorize donations from soldiers on active duty."

Benton looked up in annoyance at the loss of an easy option but nodded his head in acceptance. He turned back to the injured man, dismissing Gates from his mind as he went back to work, trying to determine the cause of each visible injury so he could deal with it in the best way given the current limitations he was forced to work under. In the distance he could hear Gates make his request, and part of him nodded in approval as the man stipulated a need for healthy donors. There were no facilities here to check the blood of any potential donors, so he could only hope they were being truthful. It was a concern to him, especially as it was a decision the man who was slowly dying beneath him might have to live with.

Amazingly, most of the wounds were gouges where the bullets had torn across flesh rather than into it. He pointed those out to Gates and left the medic the task of applying pressure bandages until he had time to suture them. However, the man's body had been penetrated by three bullets; two to the body, one to the left leg.

The man moaned softly as Benton probed several inches below the right shoulder for a bullet, grateful for the morphine that would alleviate much of the pain. Like most modern day bullets it had been designed to expend all its kinetic energy on impact so he had not been surprised to find no exit wound. He felt the small twisted mass towards the back, deeply embedded in muscle and knew he had no way of removing it. The bubbles of blood frothing on the man's blue-tinged lips told him the bullet had nicked the right lung and he reacted accordingly, patching up the man as best he could, his surgeon's skills, honed by years in ER working on the victims of gang warfare, standing him in good stead. As there was no way to remove the bullet his only option was to strap the arm to keep the injured soldier as immobile as possible.

The two remaining gunshot wounds were just as serious.

The first had gone through the side of the man's leg, severing the main artery. A tourniquet, applied by the medic earlier, stemmed the blood loss and he knew he would have to ensure it was loosened regularly or the man would lose his leg. Benton did his best to suture the severed artery, knowing it would not hold forever. The normal procedure would have been to replace the damaged length with a section of lesser important vein tissue, but that option was not open to him here in this grimy cell. Once more, he could only patch the damage and hope the man would reach an operating table before his handiwork gave out completely.

The final bullet had passed through the back, breaking a rib and tearing through the left kidney. Benton knew there was no way to save the organ; knew he would be hard-pressed to save the soldier's life under the best of circumstances. He had opened the man up and found blood seeping into his abdomen but, again, there was little he could do except try to stem the bleeding until they could get the man onto an operating table. His only consolation here was the fact that this was one organ that had a back-up. The right kidney felt undamaged and, although it would have to work harder, it could provide the necessary body function.

He shook his head in amazement as a glint of green appeared. This man ought to be dead, instead, the man was slipping in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid enough to understand what was happening to him. The dog tags had provided him with a surname and, during one moment of awareness he had gained his first name.

"Sean? You back with us? You're doing fine. You just hang in there and we'll get you fixed up as good as new."

"You... can't lie... worth... shit."

Benton grimaced slightly but then realized that this patient needed honesty rather than false assurances.

"You're right, Sean. It's not looking too good. You need far more than I can provide here. There's a lot of damage."

"Leg... feels numb."

Benton held Anderson down as a coughing fit overtook the pain-wracked body. He frowned at the increased amount of blood on the man's pale lips.

"Don't try to talk. Just concentrate on staying still."

"My... men?"

Benton looked up at Corporal Gates, his dark eyes closing at the negative shake the man gave in response. He checked the other wounds and loosened the tourniquet, deciding it might be best to avoid telling Anderson that all the other's were dead.

"I don't know."

Benton continued talking to his patient, explaining everything he was doing even when he was sure the man had slipped back into the darkness once more.

Over an hour later he sat back, watching the third donor being disconnected from the intravenous line he had set up. He knew that, if they couldn't get Anderson into an Operating Room real soon, then all he had done for the man was postpone the inevitable.

As he started to attach the line to the next donor, he heard someone move up behind him. Benton glanced over his shoulder and came face to face with the man who had spoken to them all at the very beginning; the blue eyes meeting his own dark gaze without flinching.

Hummel turned aside to look down at the heavily bandaged commander. His earlier thoughts, that 'God moves in mysterious ways', coming back. He could barely calculate the odds of there being a doctor amongst the hostages, so the odds that this doctor would turn out to be a practicing surgeon in a busy ER were almost inconceivable, but here he was... and he had, somehow, managed to keep Anderson alive against all the odds.

"How's he doing, Dr Benton?"

"Do you care?"

Hummel flinched at the barely concealed anger in the doctor's voice.

"Yes. He's a good soldier."

"Then why did you shoot him?"

Hummel remembered the horror; hands clamped over his ears as the gunfire bellowed around the open shower room, his cries of _ceasefire_ falling upon deaf ears. He hadn't wanted to shoot. He had hoped to avoid that final confrontation, hoped to have been able to get through to the younger officer that there was no need for **anyone** to die.

Just one more minute.

Since then it had all fallen to pieces. Two of Anderson's men had survived the massacre and had already disabled most of the missiles, removing and destroying the guidance chips. On his own side, Captains Darrow and Frye were unknown quantities and they were becoming more mercenary and uncontrollable with each passing hour.

He had come close to executing one of the hostages before Mason gave himself up, having been forced to commit himself to that path by the demands of Darrow and Frye. Now, with only ten minutes to the deadline, he had the fear that the Pentagon was going to call his bluff. He knew Captain Darrow would insist that a rocket be fired, and had decided his best plan might be to set up an alternative flight path that would see the rocket safely detonated underwater where it could not harm anyone. He hoped he would be able to convince the others that it was a computer error; hoped it would be enough incentive for those in the Pentagon to accede to his demands, thereby nullifying the need to fire the remaining rockets. He was dragged back from his introspection by the doctor.

"He'll die if we don't get him on an operating table soon. One of those bullets ruptured a kidney, another nicked a lung. He's slowly drowning in his own blood..." Benton glanced up at the latest donor, "...and in the blood of others."

Hummel nodded. "It'll all be over soon, Doctor. Another 15 minutes."

"That may be too long. As it is, he'll probably lose the leg if we don't act fast..."

"I **am** sorry, Doctor, but that's the best I can give you."

"Well, that's not good enough..."

Benton subsided when a gun barrel was placed against his temple. He glanced up to see a dark-skinned man with the tag _Captain Darrow_ sewn to his uniform. The gun moved until the barrel was pointing at Anderson's head.

"Then maybe we'd best just put the commander out of his misery..."

"Stand down, Captain."

Darrow gave a malicious half smile and replaced the firearm into its holster. He gave Hummel a half-hearted salute, showing his growing disdain for the general, and left the cell to prepare his own men.

Hummel took a deep, calming breath and then reached down to press his palm against the fevered brow. He was taken aback by the sight of pain-filled, green eyes trying to focus on his own, the uneven dilation giving them a glassy look. Hummel wasn't certain if Anderson knew who he was.

"Forg...et...this... mad...ness... Sir."

Hummel swallowed hard. Even now, so close to the deadline, he could not let anyone know of the bluff, not even Major Baxter, his second in command. He wanted to reach out and reassure this man, and then realised that his reassurance would be tantamount to telling Anderson that his men had died for nothing. He sighed deeply, hoping the younger man lived, and then hoping the man would be able to come to terms with the decision he had made in the shower room. He gazed back down, intent on saying something, but Anderson had slipped back into unconsciousness.

****

 **Five Days Later  
Military Hospital  
San Francisco**

When he opened his eyes again, he was confused. The dark, drab cell with its streaks of rust and smell of dankness had disappeared. Instead he was bathed in bright sunlight. The light netting billowed as a warm breeze came through the open window. He gazed around the room, surprised by the flashes of bright light both natural and man-made. Red and green lights flickered on the console beside him but these faded to nothing against the sunburst orange, scarlet, rich purple and vivid yellow flowers arranged so casually in a vase nearby.

The door opened and Anderson turned to see the owner of the soft footfall. A welcoming smile on a pretty face added to his confusion, convincing him that this was all a dream.

"How are you feeling, Commander?"

The pretty woman took a handset from the wall and spoke softly, all the while smiling at him in reassurance.

"Yes, sir. He's awake."

The woman fussed over him, straightening his pillows, checking the various bandages, tubes and wires that seemed to cover him from head to toe. The door opened again and a man strode in, clipboard in hand. He smiled.

"You gave us quite a scare, Commander."

"Where am...?" His throat seemed dry and scratchy, as if rusty from lack of use. He sighed in relief when the nurse helped him swallow a little cool water.

"You're in the military hospital in San Francisco."

"What... happened?"

"I can't answer that, Commander. All I can say is you were shot up pretty bad. Almost died on us. Would have if you hadn't been held together by a civilian doctor."

Anderson frowned, a vision of dark eyes and a gentle voice full of concern pulling him back from the brink time and time again. Those deep brown eyes became crystal blue, but the concern was the same, except there was also another emotion underlying that cool blue gaze; remorse, sorrow.

If this was San Francisco, then his mission to stop Hummel from showering the city in VX gas had succeeded - without him. He knew he would not gain any answers to his questions until the debriefing, so he saved what little strength he had remaining, seeing an approving smile cross the doctor's face.

After the doctor and nurse left the room he thought he would find sleep elusive but, moments later, he was drifting away, the faces of his dead men rising up before him.

****

 **Five Weeks Later**

It was the Navy SEAL officer in charge who broke the news to him, that he could no longer operate as a SEAL, but it had come as no surprise. With only one working kidney he would never pass the strict medical. For a moment his face reflected the bitterness he felt, but then he remembered the men under his command who had died because of him, and he decided it must be some form of divine justice. He had always wanted to be a SEAL. Even as a boy he had played pretend games with his friends, rescuing 'hostages' from the clutches of evil dictators, destroying enemy outposts. He grimaced as he realized that he had never really grown up, just replaced those water rifles and pistols with the real thing.

He thought back to the debriefing. They had exonerated him, told him his actions had been laudable given the nature of the threat to the city, but part of him wondered if he had totally misread the situation. The enemy held the high ground and the pillars in the shower room had offered only pitiable cover. He knew his men would take heavy casualties but he had believed that they would inflict serious damage on Hummel's forces in return, maybe enough to force Hummel to retreat from Alcatraz.

As he scrubbed a hand through thick blond hair he had to ask himself a single question; one more minute... would that have made a difference? Would he have realized the suicidal path he had chosen given one more minute to think it through?

He remembered the tension in the air, the palpable fear emanating from his men as they held their weapons high, pointing at the surrounding enemy above them. Heard his own voice almost begging the general to forget this lunacy, to find another way to make himself heard by the Pentagon as Hummel's voice shouted back over his own, ordering him to 'stand down'.

It was a fall of stones that started the firefight, one of Hummel's men moving position and dislodging part of the decaying masonry. It was one of his own men that had retaliated; a fear-tensed finger jerking on the hair-trigger of the weapon he held. All he could remember of the next minute was the staccato of gunfire, of the blood splattering the walls, of his men falling as their bodies were riddled with bullets. He never felt the bullet that felled him; he lost his weapon and reached for the sidearm. He remembered crawling through the smoke and through the flying debris of bullets and masonry, seeing the top half of the man he had ordered to remain with Goodspeed and Mason appear before him. The bullets that tore into his leg and abdomen flipped him onto his back, but not before he saw a hole neatly drilled into the center of the younger soldier's forehead.

He replayed this same image every time he closed his eyes... and above it all, a voice, ignored, screaming _ceasefire_.

Anderson pulled himself to his feet and, using the crutches, moved to the window to stare into the peaceful gardens surrounding the hospital. They were releasing him this afternoon, although he was not expected to return to duty for many weeks yet - if ever. There had been a mention of being invalided out of the Navy - after all, he was no longer fit for active duty and never would be.

White teeth gnawed at his bottom lip as he considered all his options. His father had tried to convince him that there was still plenty he could do outside the Navy... but the Navy had been his life, his chosen life.

A slight noise behind him brought him spinning around almost too fast and he nearly fell. He frowned at the man seated on his bed, the dark eyes appraising him slowly.

"They said you were dead. Incinerated."

"Hmmm. Maybe a little singed around the ears, but..." Mason smiled, his eyes crinkling. "They said something similar about you and, from the looks of things, it was probably closer to the truth than **my** reported demise."

Anderson felt his lips twitch, strangely pleased to see this man. He had liked Mason from the moment they met: could recognize another professional from the way he held himself plus he had heard all about the escape attempt, when Mason had left Womack dangling by the wrist over the side of the hotel penthouse balcony. From all accounts, Womack had been let off lightly. Anderson realized that if *he* had been wrongly incarcerated for thirty years, then Womack would have gone into freefall.

"So what brings you here?"

"Oh, just passing. Thought you might want to talk."

"About?"

Mason smiled again, relaxing back against the pillows.

"It's not the end, you know. It's just a new beginning... for both of us."

"Yeah, and what would you know about..."

"I spent thirty years at your... President's pleasure. My family were told I was dead, so my only visitors were Womack... and the inmates who foolishly thought I might want them for a bed partner. I walked out of that prison an old man but you, you're still young. You have a chance to make a good life for yourself, if you stop beating yourself about the head with ideas of what *could* have been."

Mason had sat back up during his little speech. He pulled himself to his feet and stalked towards the younger man.

"If you're thinking one more minute might have made a difference, then forget it. Neither of you could back down. Not then - and not now. You did what you thought was right. You did what I would have done. Don't belittle their sacrifice or their memory. You're alive, they're dead. Live with it... and make the most of the life you've been given."

"You finished?"

Mason pursed his lips and nodded.

"Pretty much so."

"You mean there's more?"

"I was there at the end, when Hummel died. I knew he had no intention of firing those rockets. It was a bluff, I could read it in his eyes from the moment we met--"

"I know."

Mason smiled at the despairing face as Anderson turned away from him. This was why he had come.

"You think they died in vain, but what you don't know, what _they_ didn't tell you was, at the end, it wasn't Hummel calling the shots. It was the mercenaries he had hired, and they fully intended to release those rockets, gas and all."

Anderson looked back, his green eyes narrowed as he gaged the veracity of Mason's statement in those dark eyes.

"No. They never told me that."

He felt some of the pain and guilt lift from his heart.

"Makes a difference, doesn't it, son?"

"Yeah. Yeah... it makes a difference."

Mason turned and started heading for the door, but he stopped on the threshold as a single word reached him.

"Why?"

He didn't need to ask for clarification.

"Because a prison isn't always made of steel bars and masonry. Don't chain yourself to the past, Anderson."

Hours later, Anderson gave the hospital room a final glance over as he waited for his father and the orderly. He had spent the time since Mason's unexpected visit mulling over the British officer's words. He still felt a lot of guilt but, for the first time, he also felt a little peace falling over him.

He still had no idea what he was going to do with his life, but he knew his first step would be to locate Dr Peter Benton and thank him. After all, the man's expertise and his refusal to give up on him had granted him far more than just one more minute. As Mason said, it had granted him a new beginning.

THE END


End file.
